Tears
by Calex
Summary: After Jean's death, both lost loved ones. She retracts in depression, and he with an unreasonable passion...UPDATED: Someone unexpected returns..
1. Default Chapter

Author: Calex

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Marvel comics created them and I took this mostly from the movies. Not my characters, but the plot is mine, what little of it is there.

Summary: You wouldn't expect them to have something in common, yet they did. Two people they loved were gone. She's still grieving, but he's recovering, in a way he never thought he would…

Author's Note: It's late and I should be sleeping. But the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is: the product of something I don't even know why I did it. To Nicki, Jas and Caz, to Leena and whoever else is reading, thanks you guys. Hope you like. It's short. Might be a series of vignettes, depends on the mood.

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            There were a lot of things that she thought she knew. At least, she was sure of them until…until he left. He was her saviour. Her hero. Her idol and her first love. Oh sure, she loved Bobby, but Bobby was someone in between. She even had that crush on John, once, but no one really fit the ideal of _him_. But he was gone, and he wasn't going to come back.

            She walked around like a ghost, haunting the corridors and the places he used to go, eyes ever sad, always detached. She knew they worried for her. It was hard not to notice, everyone practically radiated concern. Concern for what, though? Her mental state? She was perfectly fine…well. That was debatable. But she was still sane. And yet some could say that that was debatable as well. She went to her lessons, ate the food that was given to her, did her work and her share in Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters. She wasn't even sure what the name of the school was, anymore. If it really was that. All she saw was a haunted face as realisation dawned, of dry eyes that begged for the liquid tears. A once strong back walking away with slumped shoulders. Defeated. 

            So she moved in the luxurious halls, gliding across the carpeted floors, passing the wood panelled walls…if walls could talk, they would give them nothing about her, nothing more than they already knew. She was lifeless, once a person with so much fire. _Fire…_ He had seen the fire in her, he who had nurtured it into what it was. He who had made her that way, come to think of it. He was always in her head, her mind, her heart and her soul. Not because she loved him, not only because of that. His very _essence_ was in her person, a little of his so-called "life force" clung fiercely to her. Or maybe it was she who was clinging to that piece of him, unwilling to let it go. To keep some part of him for herself, to hold him there despite of his abandonment of her.

He had said he would never leave, yet he had left again. Left her, broken hearted just as he was broken hearted, knowing for sure that he had lost the one he loved, just as she knew. So similar…and yet so very different, for where he was the one she yearned for, she was not the one for him. So she mourned for him, her heart more than just cracked, dusted under the pain of awakening, of realisation. Pain of girlhood dreams crushed to a fine powder, then blown to the harsh wind. 

She walked the corridors like a ghost, dressed in her old fashioned clothes, gloves ever present, a scarf around her neck. John always did use to tease her about her dress sense. Never in the caustic manner he had with the other mutants. He was gentler with her, kinder. He showed her a side of him that he had not shown anyone for a long time. She knew that John had suffered, perhaps worse than she did. Maybe it didn't help that _his_ leaving coincided with John's abandonment. Two of the three men she looked up to were gone, the third lost in his very own world of misery, of pain and torture. Of guilt and anger and helplessness. 

The boy she used to love, she locked out. Gave him the coldness he was supposed to be master of. She had put a block of solid ice where her heart was, and it wasn't thawing. No matter what anyone did, it wasn't thawing. It was still there, larger than life, cold as death, numbing her from life and keeping her cold and dispassionate where she used to be warm and impassioned. She referred to him as boy, whereas she had referred to the others as men. Even John had been promoted as man, Bobby was and forever shall be a boy. He had that untainted innocence youth holds, how she did not know. He should have been darkened, dirtied by reality, but he stayed pure in the face of darkness. She did not want to taint him with her darkness.

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He was watching her, watching that heart of hers get colder, smaller. He watched as she let her depression pull her under, watched as she let the pain of loss and grief blind her to life and it's possibilities. He couldn't judge, he wanted to be her. Wanted it almost as much as he wanted her. Oh yes, he wanted her. Wanted that darkness she exuded when she moved, or even when she was still, wanted to taste the bitter sorrow of her mouth, to feel the silken sin of her hair against his guilt ridden hands. He wanted her with a cold passion that should have scared him, if fear had still been present in his heart. This was not the warm comfort of his love for Jean, this was coldness that derived from his grief. His too short grief that had somehow channelled itself into this… this _madness_. This cold, gnawing lust. He didn't know why she was the victim of this unexplainable reaction, truth be told he didn't want to.

            So he watched her, watched her listless movements and her silence, watched her as her dark beauty grew. She was one of those women that grew beautiful in pain and sorrow. She had been pretty before, now she was…irresistible. He didn't know how he managed not to ravish her on several occasions, as she sat in silence, sitting with a group and yet isolated, detached. He supposed it was his morals, the girl was only 17. She was also his student, and he her mentor. He knew she looked up to him, respected him; saw him as someone going through the same thing. In some ways so true, yet in others so very wrong.

            He taught her not only in lessons, but sometimes they would meet. If only in the library to read in silence in each other's company. They didn't need to talk, both knew words were inadequate. They merely revelled in the other's company, the silence always comfortable. Sometimes they sparred, he would teach her how to fight and fight well. She took it up quickly and he never knew if it was her or that little piece of _him_ that was in her. Even he didn't speak _his_ name, anymore.

            Tonight they were not going to meet. They hadn't arranged for it. Tonight was the night she usually spent on her own, doing lord knows what. He was sick of it, of her secrecy. He wanted to know what the hell she was doing. So he followed her when he saw her leave the dining room. Made some stupid excuse and left, trailing silently in her footsteps. She didn't lead him to where he thought she would, instead she lead him to the very place he wouldn't expect her to be. The music room.

            He leaned against the doorway and saw as she took a seat in front of the harp. Saw her sigh and her shoulders slump. This was where she allowed herself to be weak. Even then, she didn't not allow full weakness, for she was already straightening her shoulders. She rested the harp on her shoulder, tested the string. Then she paused, head cocked as if in thought. The next moment, the silk elbow length gloves were spread on the floor and her fingers returned to their earlier positions, resting lightly on the strings, graceful. 

He never thought of her with a harp, didn't think of her with a musical instrument. Yet he should have, he supposed. And she looked good, the dark wood o f the harp blending harmoniously with the darkness of her hair, contrasting brilliantly with the white shock at her temples. He was taken from his musings by the soft strains of music in the air. It was then that he realised that her fingers were plucking the strings. 

            The melody that she churned out was an unfamiliar one, haunting in it's beauty, heart wrenching in it's sadness. It was a song epitomised by her, so very like her. Beauty and pain mixed in a package that was just…evocative. She moved her fingers over the harp and he watched in silence, enveloped by the shadows and first noticed the glimmering trail on her cheek.

 He watched her for awhile, the turned on his heel, closed the door softly behind him. He might still lust over her, want her with a need unrivalled, but he would let her have her moment of pain and mourning. He would let her have her time. Today would be that time, tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow he would begin again, when wanting her wouldn't seem like such a sin. Tomorrow he would taste her sorrow, tomorrow he would kiss her pain, tomorrow he would caress her darkness. But today he would let her have her tears.

Hope you liked that. It wasn't written in my usual style and it was VERY short, but hope it was okay. You know what to do, press that little button on the left and leave me some feedback. Tell me to leave it or make it into a short series. But that is all I have the strength for tonight. Tonight I need my sleep. So nite nite, bon nuit, buona sera, selamat malam and all that. 

~Calex~

"The only good spider is a dead spider." -Garfield


	2. Betrayal

Author: Calex

Title: Betrayal

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I own nothing, the X-Men belong to Marvel comics, though this is more according to the movie.

Notes: Sequel to "Tears". Read that if you want to have a better idea of what's going on. This might be a series of vignettes, but the next one might take some time in the making.

_Betrayal_

She quirked up her head, her body completely and utterly still. Then she started running. He didn't question her, knew what she knew in his heart and he felt suddenly desolate. He wouldn't be allowed his time with her, not anymore. Not that _he_ was back. _He_ wouldn't allow it, and _he_ would monopolise her thoughts. _Him_. He had stolen his other love as well. _Jean…._ Jean had fallen in love with that man, the coarse, uncouth man that was now being enveloped in a tight hug by the very woman he had wanted for so long, by the very woman he had wished would do the very same to him with the same lack of thought. He stood somewhat in the shadows and watched as she babbled incoherently to him, watched as tears ran down those smooth cheeks of hers, watched as the first smile in months bloomed on her face. But Logan, for that was _his_ name, didn't smile. He kissed her on the part of her temple covered by her hair and asked for the professor. He saw her face fall and pretended that he could hear her heart breaking. His fists tightened at his sides as he watched _him_ leave her behind.

He stepped towards her and she didn't even turn to acknowledge him, merely watched _his_ back disappearing around the corner. Then she turned to him and her eyes were filled with tears and questions. Why? Why come back, why the cool greeting? Why didn't he love her? Good questions, questions he didn't have the answers to. He merely opened his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. Cry about the man that she loved, the very man who had stolen the hearts of two of the women that he loved. And the really painful thing was that he didn't even love her. this one, the one he was completely, utterly, irrevocably mad about. He kissed the top of her head and wished that the other man would leave, for once, and give him something. Just…something.

She looked up at him, her sobs finally dried up. He wiped away a few drops of tears from her cheek with his thumb and tried not to wince as her skin sapped at his life force. Her eyes widened, locked on his. He shook his head, rested his forehead at the top of her head. Took a shaky breath.

She stepped away from him, looked at him from hooded eyes. He looked at her and for once let the walls he built drop, let all pretences drop and he watched as her eyes widened, watched as realisation hit her. She stared at him for a moment, then she ran. He held out a hand to where she had gone, eyes distraught. Then he let his hand fist and drop to his side. He walked towards his classroom and gave excuses for her not being there. He taught the lesson at hand as normal, but nothing was normal. She'd run away from him, run away from what he had offered her. And that was more painful than any blow she could bestow upon him.

She ran through the corridors, tears blurring her sight. She ran through the twist and turns that had become as familiar to her as the back of her hand. Finally, she reached the destination looked for and she flung the door open and closed it with a resounding click. Her heart was shattered, yet it was beating in a wild tattoo against her chest. She flung off her gloves and sat herself down by her harp. She position her hands on the strings and… and found she couldn't play. With a heartbroken cry, she pushed herself away and back pedalled away from the harp until her back hit the wall. Her body shook from the heart wrenching sobs that tore through her slender frame. Her world had just turned upside down. Her love had returned… and walked away from her. and…and the man she had grown to respect, to like, to trust… he had shown her something that she just wished didn't exist in his eyes when he looked at her. He had opened up his soul to her. It felt like a betrayal, a strange, bitter betrayal. He wasn't supposed to be like that, wasn't supposed to feel like that, not after _her_.

God, _why_? Why was she put through this torture day by day, hour by hour? The torture of the knowledge that Logan didn't care, the torture of the knowledge that her love for him was not reciprocated, the torture of the knowledge that he merely saw her as a… a_ thing_. These past few months, the pain of loss had brought her deep into the darkest pits of despair and she had only one moment of solace in her days. This, this her music. And now… now she didn't even have that. She looked up at the ornately plastered ceiling, her eyes brimming with the tears she refused to let go of, she had cried far too much. She shook her head and took deep breaths, trying to calm them, but they stung her eyes, lived a life of their own as they slid down her cheeks in an endless river.

_Scott_… why had he done that? Why? He was the only one that she had expected not to… the hurt of his betrayal was bitter and sharp, like a thousand small knives painting her skin with small cuts and her blood, turning her statue into something of ivory and crimson. Her depression hung about her like a dark cloud and her tears releasing a mild torrent of the rain that clung deep to that cloud. It wasn't the release she needed, not even close, but she didn't know how to change that, did not know how to release that other emotion. Maybe it was impossible for her, now. Impossible for her to ever have her release. Maybe she was doomed to live her half-life, doomed to live with bitter betrayal in her mouth and emptiness where her heart was. With that in mind, she felt a certain sense of… false calm enshroud her and she stood up, ignored the harp and went to the cello. Sat herself on the chair behind in, drew the instrument between her body and rested the fingers of her left hand on the strings, the bow lying limply in her right hand. She took a deep breath, then leaned her head down and began to coax haunting music from the instrument. Haunting…. The only type of music she ever played, anymore.

He saw her wherever he went. He tried to block her away, tried to fight the unholy madness that was his attraction to her, fought it with everything that he was, but it was a losing battle and he knew that with a sinking heart. The mad need to feel her, taste her, see her, _consume_ her was still there, still under the surface, snapping at him as though it were an invisible beast. But as he avoided her, she avoided him much better than he could ever allow himself to, as where he was weak and his need to see her sometimes overpowered him and his good intentions, she was strong in her need _not_ to see him. Her usual companions were full of questions, for she was gone far more than she used to be. Far, far more. She walked with no one, talked with no one. Ate only when she had to, talked only when she had to. She did her work, she kept up that much of a pretence, but otherwise she lived the life of a spiritless thing, of a phantom that haunted the halls of the school, making the very walls drip in her melancholy.

He remembered what it had felt like, to touch her skin. That electric pull of her skin as it took in himself, a little of himself. Too short a time was it for her to take in anything of importance except, perhaps, for his feelings for her. Those dark feelings, the unholy passions. Maybe she had captured some dark thought in his mind as well, his dark fantasies of running his guilt ridden hands over her sin-reeked skin, of his mouth drinking in the cold despair of hers, of his body fusing itself with hers in dark, despondent moments, of their souls entwining in their heady melancholy, their bitter sorrows. Maybe he scared her with the dark intensity of his thoughts, as he scared himself, sometimes. Maybe.

He walked to the music room, again having weakened and wanting to see her once again. He heard the crash of notes on the piano, a graceless sound and frowned. She would never make such a sound, never intentionally… but maybe in her deepest moment of despair she might lash out. Would she? He pushed open the door and what he saw made him want to cry out with the heat of the fury he felt. Heat, when so long he had only felt ice. Heat because of a renewing pain. _His_ hands were on _her_. _He_ was running those big hands of his over _her_ silken skin roughly, crudely. _His_ mouth was on _hers_ in what seemed to be passion, but he knew the signs, he could read them as well as he could read the numbness in _his_ eyes. _He_ was using _her_. And she was letting him. He closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and took several deep breaths, his hands clenching at his sides. He had left, that first time, letting her have her private moment of her despair, letting her have her tears. Now he made himself turn resolutely away, made himself turn away from the sight that had made his heart break once more, he turned away from the sight of her letting herself be used. He feared he would never be rid of the sight of her pale, slender body against that of _his_. Would never get rid of the image of those slender legs of hers wrapped around his waist, and of her clawing his back as he tried to get the experience over and done with as fast as he could, in order not to get hurt. Oh, he knew why _he_ was doing it, that flash of adrenalin, the question whether he would survive or be hurt. The thrill that he might get, that might just coax a little bit of life from his numb existence. And as he looked at them, she had lifted her head, gasping, and her eyes had opened and locked on his. And in the depths of hers he saw her numbness as well, and knew that she had let herself be used because it was _him_ that was using her. Another reason for her avoidance. That cut a more bitter betrayal than anything else that she had done. That had cut a deeper hurt than anything else. That had made him turn on his heel and wish that he could get rid of the memory of the images as easily as he could get rid of the images themselves. He left them to their ice, to their emptiness, to their search of something that was close to the heat that he had felt upon finding them, the heat of his anger. In that one action that she had done, she had given him life again, another way. She gave him heat where once ice resided. He supposed he should thank her for that, although he felt, at that moment, he would rather be burnt in ice once more.


End file.
